


Unspoken

by sendal



Series: Improbably Romantic: Clint and Tony [2]
Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Shmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:59:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sendal/pseuds/sendal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Writing a mission report is never fun, especially with a killer migraine and broken heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

Seven hours by helo and transport plane, surrounded by vibrating metal and noisy engines, shit so loud that the crew had to shout over the comms; the lingering throb in Clint's head magnified into a beast of a migraine that clawed into his skull and amused itself by shredding his brain into soft pulp. Four days in the desert with only minimal rations had him sipping  as much water as he could scrounge up, but it wasn't as if SHIELD transport came with a flight attendant bearing drinks for his every whim. He wished, fleetingly, that he was on Tony's private jet, all that finery and luxury and even a bed to lay flat on, but if Clint had learned anything in life so far, it was that wishes were cheap.

If he were in the wishing business, however, he'd wish for a time machine to go back and undo this mess of an op. He'd wish for a magic shield for that dark-eyed, laughing kid who'd been standing in the wrong place, wrong time when the explosives blew. He'd wish for a miracle pill to erase the images of half-charred corpses, their mouths frozen open in final screams.

He'd wish for Tony to be sitting beside him on the bench seat, making some joke or filthy suggestion in his liquid gold voice, his hand twined in Clint's as if they were teenagers in puppy love and not lovers in the middle of a week-old quarrel.

But wishes didn't come true. Not in Clint's experience. Maybe to other people, those born under lucky stars or the wings of angels, but not for him.

The plane had no windows. Didn't matter, because nothing lay below but black sky and the cold immensity of the fatal Atlantic.  Clint's sense of time and distance was wonky, but he thought maybe they were still an hour or two from landing. The medic was sitting close by Jefferson, keeping an eye on the man's bullet wounds. The mission handler, Lewis, was furiously typing notes into a tablet. He and Clint currently weren't on speaking terms. Clint wasn't about to go admit weakness by asking the medic for painkillers of his own, even if his eyeballs felt like they were being eaten up by acid and starting to dribble down his sinuses.

 _Don't be an idiot,_ Tony might say if he were sitting beside him. _Take a goddamn pill_.

Words like _idiot_ and _goddamn_ had been part of their quarrel right before Clint left on the op. The specific trigger for the fight eluded Clint now, but he was pretty sure he and Tony had each been pushy and defensive, sarcastic and disappointed.

So much for another not-so-successful relationship in Clint's romantic history. At least this one hadn't ended with them shooting at each other.

The ridiculously loud engines drilled noise into his ears and down his neck into his spine. His hands ached with cold, though he was sweating under his flight jacket. He was hungry, maybe. Nauseous, definitely. Just the thought of the peanut butter power bar in his pocket made him want to vomit.  The hard bench beneath him faced a very boring bulkhead of netting, cables and equipment, nothing very interesting in the dim light. He closed his eyes and saw a kaleidoscope of things he'd rather forget. Better to stare at the black and gray with his sandpaper eyes and try to think of nothing.

Not to think of Tony's warm eyes.

Or Tony's big hands, rough from hours in his workshop.

Or the way Tony fucked, full of enthusiasm and fire, determined to exhaust them both with pleasure. You couldn't emerge from Tony Stark's bed without bruises and muscle fatigue and a newfound appreciation for Jacuzzi baths, and Clint loved every challenging moment.

His own bed was going to be achingly lonely from now on. It'd probably be best if he moved out of the Tower, so things weren't awkward for everyone else.

To do list: land, avoid Medical, do mission report, take hot shower, stab himself in the head until the migraine went away, get eighteen hours sleep, ignore guilt over fucking things up with Tony, get new living arrangements . . .

The world blurred into a steady wash of pain.  Time stretched out just to torture him. He didn't notice they'd landed on the helicarrier until the doors were flung open.  The medics evacuated Jefferson first. Davis followed with a clipped expression. Clint fumbled with his safety belt, his fingers unaccountably clumsy, and forced himself out to the landing deck on shaky legs. Outside the air was cool and drizzly, pre-dawn light in the east, the carrier's lights bright against the black sky. The wind gusting against Clint's face felt refreshing and he resisted the urge to lay down where he was to enjoy it. No use alarming the deck crew, after all.

One advantage of landing out here was that no one was likely to be waiting for Clint – not Natasha, who was off in Russia somewhere; not any of the Avengers, who had no reason to hang out waiting for the weakest link in the team to return from a routine op; not Nick Fury, certainly, who had a million better things to do with his time. But for just a minute Clint thought he saw Tony's familiar silhouette standing near one of the open hatches, short leather coat flapping around him.  

Ridiculous hope spiked for a moment. Tony had not only forgiven him, but had come all this way to meet him.

Then one of the deck crew passed Clint, blocking his view, and by the time he moved on the silhouette was gone.

Of course Tony wasn't here. He'd have no way of knowing that Clint was returning, not unless he'd hacked into SHIELD's top secret communications again. Even so, he wasn't going to zoom over from New York just so they could continue their argument. Unless Tony had hacked in precisely so he could be here when Clint landed and make clear their fledgling relationship was permanently over, and Clint shouldn't even bother coming back to the Tower.

"Sir?" That was one of the flight crew, standing at Clint's elbow. "Do you need assistance?"

Clint shook his head. Big mistake, because it made the red-hot lava pain of the migraine slosh quickly from one side of his skull to the other.  He forced himself forward to the nearest hatch, steadied himself on a bulkhead inside, and waited for the sparkling lights in his vision to fade away before he started searching for the nearest ladder. His first instinct, to find himself a safe spot and hole up until he died, vied with the need to get his mission report done so that the higher-ups would know exactly who to blame for this fuck-up.

He didn't think he'd make it as far as the Ops Center without keeling over, and he didn't want any of the scrutiny he'd get from the shift-workers there. Closer by was the office for Helo Control, with half a dozen crew standing watch in a bright, crowded compartment. The duty officer, a young ensign with red hair, recognized Clint and saluted.

"Agent Barton!  How can we help you, sir?"

"At ease," Clint said wearily. He hated military protocol. "I need a computer."

"Right over here, sir," the ensign said eagerly, and escorted him to a corner desk. The chair was almost comfortable, and the terminal accepted his secure ID and password. The other watch personnel got busy with tasks of their own, but he could sense their sideways glances.  He didn't know if they were looking at him as a Level 7 agent, as Hawkeye the Avenger, or as the guy who'd nearly wrecked the helicarrier under Loki's fucking mind control. He was too tired to care.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" the ensign asked.

"No," Clint said, keeping his head down. All the muscles in his neck and shoulders felt like barbed wire stretched too tight. "I'll be as fast as I can."

Although most of his handlers would claim Clint could type only about ten words a minute, he could usually go faster. Not tonight, however, with his hands as cold as frozen hamburger and his vision blurred at the edges. He was pecking at the first paragraph when a young sailor appeared at his elbow, carrying a large cup of what was definitely not coffee.

"The coffee machine's broken, but you look like you could use some hot tea," she said, perky despite the late hour.

Clint was a coffee fan. Sometimes it helped a bad headache, and sometimes it made it worse, but the rich smell of even cheap coffee was a comfort, especially at the end of an exhausting day. At the Tower, Steve had declared caffeine to be bad for everyone's health. He had stocked the kitchen with tea to prescribe for headaches, insomnia, indigestion, and any other minor ailments that might stalk a band of superheroes.  Tony, of all people, had even started drinking various blends: honey, vanilla, chamomile, and even lavender.  

Thinking about Tony made the ache in his chest grow bigger. He couldn't afford the distraction, not if he wanted to stay upright much longer.

"Tea's fine," Clint said to the yeoman. "Thanks."

"Sure," she said, a faint blush on her cheeks. An Avengers fan girl, maybe. Next she'd ask him about what it was like to work with Captain America and Iron Man, and that was a conversation he never wanted to have.

Clint went back to his typing. After a moment, the yeoman stepped away. The hot tea tasted faintly like honey, just the way he liked it. It warmed Clint's fingers and eased the scratchiness in his throat, but the migraine pain was now a jackhammer drilling into his skull in synchronization with his pulse. He concentrated on one word after another, stringing them together in the language of SHIELD field reports, and if he had to close one eye to keep the pixels from blurring, no one needed to know.

The duty phone rang. After a brief conversation, the ensign sent one of the junior technicians off on an errand.  Clint barely paid attention until he felt warm air wafting across the deck and against his legs. A small space heater was humming just a few feet away, easing the bitter chill in his bones.

"It's always freezing cold here, especially at night," the ensign said. "Hope you don't mind if we warm the place up."

It was more than okay; Clint wanted to crawl over and curl himself around the red coils and hug them to his chest for the rest of his life. He would have said so, too, but the migraine was making him less and less inclined to talk, and more likely to just fall face-first onto the keyboard. He nodded slightly and returned to the laborious task of finishing the second paragraph.

Half of the fluorescent lights overhead went out. Clint blinked at a bald technician who was up on a ladder, unscrewing the bulbs.

"Preventative maintenance," the technician said. "Sorry."

No apology was necessary. Clint's eyes appreciated the new dimness. Between the tea, the heat and the reduction in light, he was able to focus more on the words in front of him. His vocabulary was suffering: the migraine stole away words that conveyed subtlety and left him with more accurate but less politically correct terms regarding Jefferson such as _asshole_ and _fuck up_ and  _criminal stupidity_. Tony would encourage him to complete the report with every bad word intact. He was known throughout Stark Industries for his own vitriolic memos, which is why Pepper Potts screened him whenever possible.

 _Honesty is a fucking virtue,_ Tony would say.

Clint's nose was running. He wiped it on his sleeve and pushed aside the stupid desire to have Tony right beside him, wisecracking and strong and brilliantly rude.

Finally the report was done. He submitted it, considered crawling under the desk to sleep, decided that he could make the twenty minute walk to the temporary quarters on deck five. Standing up was a challenge, but he willed his knees not to collapse and put a discreet hand on the bulkhead for support. He sucked in a steadying breath and waited for the wobbly feeling to pass.

"Sir?" That was the duty ensign again. "Ops called to say you hadn't reported for your post-mission medical screen. They asked me to send you down there."

"Sure," Clint said. He'd agree to anything, as long as the ensign didn't block his way to the hatch. Not that Clint trusted his feet yet. He wasn't even sure he trusted his sense of up and down.

"With an escort," the ensign added.

"Not necessary," Clint ground out.

"One of the civilian contractors volunteered, sir."

Clint squinted past him to the hatch. He recognized the leather jacket, the scruff of beard, the intense brown gaze.  Tony looked simultaneously hopeful and wary, unsure of his reception but determined to step forward anyway.

"Thanks for your help," Clint told the ensign.

"Yes, sir," the ensign said.

Clint kept locked on Tony's gaze and was proud that he didn't collapse on his way through the compartment.  He got all the way to the empty passageway outside before he let himself half-fall into Tony's strong, welcoming arms. They wound up against the bulkhead, Tony supporting most of Clint's weight, Clint happy to lay his head on Tony's shoulder and be held. The pain in his skull didn't diminish in the least but he could now close his eyes, could let his posture slump, could fucking drop his guard.

Tony was talking in Clint's ear, a low rumble of reassurance.

"—they're going to give you the happy drugs, Barton, and when you get discharged I'm taking you to these hot water springs in Switzerland, you're going to love it, and Jesus what have you been doing, you smell awful."

Clint would have laughed if he could. Instead he coughed, and paid for it with a spike of bright pain behind his eyes.  He was shaking from relief, and intensely interested in never leaving Tony's arms again.

"You want to walk or you want me to carry you?" Tony asked. "Not that my back would appreciate it, but hey, you're the stubborn son of a bitch who's dicking around with reports when you should be hooked up to an IV. You look half-dead. Your handler should be fired."

Clint agreed about the handler part, but he had no desire to be thrown over Tony's shoulder for the trip to the infirmary. He mumbled," Give me a minute."

"I'll give you five, but I'd rather give you a blow job. You know, it's a proven fact that orgasm can ease a headache."

Tony's warm hands were under Clint's shirt, rubbing circles on his back. Clint kissed Tony's neck below his ear. The soft, familiar skin was a comfort.  Pieces of the last hour fell into place, slower than Clint liked but making sense at the end.

He said, "Thanks for the tea. And for everything else."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Tony said loftily. "I just came out here  for a visit, saw the mission list, thought I'd stick around to take you home."

Home. There'd be no lonely bed in Clint's foreseeable future. He wanted to say _I was afraid you'd still be mad_ and _I'm glad we're not fighting anymore_ and _you're pretty damned amazing_ , but Tony Stark, of all people, was pretty good at understanding sentiments unspoken.  

The end

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. It was fun to write but more fun to share!


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